Water and Other Pretty Liquids
by darknessinastateofmind
Summary: Only sometimes is Alex Karev fascinated by water and other pretty liquids. A look into Alex's self-destructive tendencies.
Title: Water and Other Pretty Liquids

Author: darknessinastateofmind

Summary: Only sometimes is Alex Karev fascinated by water and other liquids.

Warnings: Implied alcoholism, self harm

Pairings: Implied Alex/Izzie

Disclaimer: I do not own Grey's Anatomy nor any of the characters mentioned. All rights belong to the owner.

Author's Note: Ever since I started watching Grey's Anatomy some millennia ago (okay, five years), I have been fascinated by Alex Karev. I feel as if the show didn't delve on his inner-angst quite as much as they could (and should) have, so I began reading Alex-centric fanfiction! Unfortunately, there are few stories that satisfy my angst-lover needs, so, here I am. Writing my own fanfiction. This first piece revolves around Alex's self-destructive tendencies. Please, enjoy.

* * *

 _I should go now quietly_

 _For my bones have found a place_

 _To lie down and sleep_

 _Where all my layers can become reeds_

 _All my limbs can become trees_

 _All my children can become me_

 _What a' mess I leave_

 _To follow_

 _-Smother, by Daughter_

* * *

Alex has always been fascinated by water. It's so pretty, the clear, smooth, flowing liquid. It does medical wonders too, apparently. At least, that's what he read somewhere. He's not entirely sure it's true, but it'd be cool if it was.

Better yet than regular water is colored water. Drinks. For some reason, colored water is like regular, pretty water, but even _better_ , somehow. Beer is the prettiest, he thinks.

It feels good, too. Beer. Maybe not at first (it burns his throat), or later (it makes him nauseous), but in between? God, it feels so damn good. And, it's funny, he never really appreciates how nice water and other liquids are until he's had some beer.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" he whispers, sloshing around the amber liquid in his half-empty glass. No one replies. Alex looks up, surprised. He was certain that he was at Joe's, but then he remembers that he's actually in his house, and there's no one but him here. He's alone. He laughs hollowly at that. Big surprise.

"I'm so tired," Alex murmurs, staring at his glass.

"Did you hear me?" he shouts again, tilting his head back. "I am so fucking tired." And then he downs the rest of the liquid, grimacing as it ungracefully slides down his throat.

And then he starts laughing, for no apparent. Real, loud, body-shaking laughter. Everything just seems so funny. Like, how hilarious is this?: Alex Karev, alone in his apartment on a Sunday night, drinking his fourth (or maybe fifth) bottle of shitty 7-11 beer, talking to himself. And laughing, like a maniac.

So fucking funny.

Eventually, the vociferous laughter dies down to soft chuckles, and then, finally, to utter silence. And he's empty, after that. He picks up the glass, only to find it empty. So many things are empty. Suddenly, beer isn't particularly pretty when it's in the form of tiny dregs at the bottom of his glass.

Alex reaches blindly into the cardboard beer box and shuffles around it for another bottle. There's no more bottles left - he drank it all. He sighs. His gut aches for another bottle, hell, even another sip. He needs the burning beginning, he needs the perfect middle, he needs the painful end.

He stumbles up, unsteady hands blindly grabbing at any surface to steady himself. God, how much did he drink? He slams his hip against the counter in his haste and he spits out a swear, cradling his bruised side. "Stupid, motherfucking counter," Alex hisses, slamming his palm against the cold surface. "Stupid…"

He throws open the fridge, wincing as the bright light illuminates the entire kitchen and burns his eyes. It's empty save for a half-empty carton of leftover Chinese from last week and a jar of expired mayonnaise. Nothing like what he needs.

Alex staggers to the bathroom and squints at his appearance in the mirror. Disheveled hair, thick stubble, red-rimmed eyes, and chapped lips. In short, he looks like hell. _Or a druggie._ Both are pretty close to the truth.

He pulls out his razor and shaves dry, ignoring the sharp pain that erupts when he nicks the skin against his jaw. No, not ignore. Relishes it. Impulsively, Alex takes the razor and deliberately slides it against his jawbone and watches as the blood pools out of the thin cut. For a second, he's mesmerized by the bright liquid, just as he was mesmerized by the water and beer.

Until Alex realizes what he's done. _Stupid,_ he scolds himself. Even back in high school, when he was angry and depressed and suicidal and a cutter, even back when he wasn't exactly stable, he never cut anywhere near his face. He didn't even cut his wrists, just his inner thighs.

 _Stupid._

But, thankfully, the cut's small enough to be dismissed as a mere accident (okay, a pretty big accident), so he slaps a bandaid on and calls it a day.

 _You have rounds tomorrow. Go to bed._

And he tries, he really does. He brushes his teeth and throws on his pajamas and crawls under the covers, trying to ignore his throbbing head and uneasy stomach and overall panic.

It works, at least partially. He's slept with pain more times than he can count.

But, as he finally starts to drift off, the memories start. Izzie, with her cornsilk curls and dark brown eyes smooth white skin and perfect pink lips, pressed against his. Izzie, not with him, with that corpse. Izzie, saying: "You don't deserve anyone". And the worst thing is? She's right. She's so fucking right because he doesn't deserve anyone, not after he screwed up so much. Not after everything he's done.

Alex squeezes his eyes shut and slams the pillow over his head, trying to block out the onrush of memories. Because, with those, comes so much more, memories from years and years ago, memories that he can't think about or else his head might fall off or something.

If he's completely honest, it wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen.


End file.
